Wednesday, February 28, 2007


BUFFALO: Antonella who? Did wot?

BIRD: Antonella Barba. American Idol, dude. She's gonna win it, Apparent Lee, by a head. Her vid is doin' a gagging trade on da YouTube, like.

BUFFALO: Wot vid? Xplain, pliz, Lucy.

BIRD: It's incredible. Pushing the boundaries. Breaking new ground.

BUFFALO: Holy salivations! Wot in Theodore Digitalis's name is she doin' innit?

BIRD: Gardening, dude. Getting down deep and darty.

BUFFALO: Wot, with a trowel and shrubs 'n' stuff?

BIRD: Yahhh-p. The way she strokes that hoe - it's electrifying!

BUFFALO: Omigod! I'm gettin' that Olivia Newton-John Grease moment all over again. Just wot exactly is she doin' wid dat hoe, dude?

BIRD: Cutting the border on the lawn.

BUFFALO: No! Ohhh...

BIRD: Yes. And you know wot she does next?

BUFFALO: Don't tell me, lemme guess. Cuts the lawn?

BIRD: Yahhp! Slowly, methodically, like a real pro. Wiping her hot, sweaty face and brow as she goes.

BUFFALO: Oh Merciful Marigolds! Is she wearin' a hat?

BIRD: Yahhp.

BUFFALO: A baseball hat?

BIRD: Yahhp.

BUFFALO: A New York Yankees' baseball hat?

BIRD: Yahhp.

BUFFALO: Ohhhh... And the vid's on YouTube, you say?

BIRD: Was.


BIRD: It was voluntarily pulled - too many elderly male gardeners were having seizures, like.

BUFFALO: But of course.

BIRD: But the good news is...


BIRD: You can still see the full 15-minute unedited feast of horticultural celebration at

BUFFALO: Wow. Clicking as we speak.

BIRD: I tell ya, dude, when she pops that wet grass onto the compost heap down by the potting shed and starts cleaning her tools...

BUFFALO: Dude, dude, don't spoil it! Ohhh, yeah... there she goes to the shed. She's getting the lawn mower out... Oh, Antonella, you darty gal...

BIRD: Film at eleven?

BUFFALO: Watering at twelve! Arf, arf!

Tuesday, February 27, 2007


BIRD: Nothing comes from nothing. Nothing ever could. But somewhere...

FIFI: ...all the somethings you ever dreamed about are waiting--to get you!!!

BIRD: Yikes!

Monday, February 26, 2007


BIRD: Britney Sp... HELEN MIRREN! Yay!


BIRD: Yippee!

BUFFALO: Foo-dook-a-rooooo!

BIRD: Ger-fum-a-ummm!

BUFFALO: Per-too-a-shooooo!

BIRD: (sighs deeply)

BUFFALO: (sighs deeply)

BIRD: Our Hels!

BUFFALO: Your Hels!

BIRD: The Long Good Friday, Piscali's Island...

BUFFALO: The Cook, The Thief, His Wife & Her Lover, The Madness Of King George...

BIRD: Last Orders, Gosford Park...

BUFFALO: Calendar Girls...

BIRD: And The Queen!

BUFFALO: Mah-vellous!

BIRD: Spiffing! Birth name Ilyena Vasilievna Mironov.

BUFFALO: 5ft 4 inches tall. Nickname Popper.

BIRD: Made a dame in 2003.

BUFFALO: 36-25-36...

BIRD: (sighs deeply)

BUFFALO: (sighs deeply)

BIRD: Sayonara, Britney?

BUFFALO: Do one, Spears!

BIRD: Helen at eleven!

BUFFALO: Ahhhhhf, ahhhhhf!

Thursday, February 22, 2007


HOLMES: America? Surely you jest, Watters.

WATSON: God’s tooth, Holmes. I was there in the winter of ‘80.

HOLMES: Not in “Lost Wages” I trust?

WATSON: Good heavens, no, Holmes. I was summoned to the wilds of Pennsylvania. The capitol, no less. A rather prosaic burg. . . Harrisburg, to be precise. Not far from the fabled town of Hershey, where the street lamps are done up in the shape of the infamous Hershey Kisses. . . bizarre, that. They have a “theme park” dedicated to the proliferation of chocolate.


WATSON: With Earl Grey? Gads, Holmes. . . no, thank you, just a spot of lemon and sugar, there’s a good fellow.

HOLMES: Harrisburg.

WATSON: Yes, indeed. . . it seems that a gaggle of writers were in need of a travelling physician.

HOLMES: Whatever for?

WATSON: Have you ever known any writers, Holmes?

HOLMES: Only Sir Arthur. . . and that eccentric chap, Wilde.

WATSON: Right. So you know of the proclivity of writers for the grape, shall we say?

HOLMES: Ah, I appertain your meaning. . . scribblers do have a certain reputation for imbibing like fish, is it not?

WATSON: To put it mildly, Holmes. You may recall the last words of the nefarious Welsh writer Dylan Thomas: “I had eighteen Scotch and sodas. I think that’s the record.”

HOLMES: Ended badly, did it?

WATSON: The coroner listed the cause of death as “An alcoholic insult to the brain.”

HOLMES: I believe I see where this is going, Watters. This pride of itinerant wordsmiths, fearing untimely demise from spiritus frumenti, elected to employ a doctor as a traveling companion, lest they overindulge?

WATSON: Precisely, Holmes. That and the odd short-arm inspection, seeing as how one of them was a rather vivacious young woman who lost most of her inhibitions and her lingerie when she’d had a drop too many, something that happened with fearful regularity about two hours into Happy Hour every evening.

HOLMES: Ah, the prod thickens. . .

WATSON: Pluralize that and you’ve got it, Holmes.

HOLMES: I say, Watney, just out of professional curiosity, you being a man of the world and all, did you perchance happen to. . .

WATSON: Say no more, Holmes. We were still obliged to take the Hippocratic Oath when I became an intern. I never laid a hand on her. Well, discounting the daily examinations to ensure that she hadn’t been contaminated by the virtual non-stop rutting, of course.

HOLMES: Of course. I would expect no less of you, Watters. Carry on.

WATSON: Where was I? Let’s see. . . it was Christmas Day and we were making our way over the Dawson trail. . . no, no, dash it all, that was another winter expedition. Ah, I have it. . . it was a Saturday morning, hence a rest day, and we were enroute to the local shopping mall to find an establishment known as “Victoria’s Secret”. . .

HOLMES: “Victoria’s Secret”? I say, Watson, is that some devilish slur on our beloved sovereign?

WATSON: No, not at all, Holmes. It’s merely a popular panty emporium that panders to svelte young women and middle-aged chaps of the lecherous stripe.

HOLMES: Ah, I see. Just curious, do they publish a catalogue, perchance?

WATSON: Yes. I’m on the subscription list, actually. . . would you like an application? For your “files” of course.

HOLMES: Most thoughtful of you, Watson. More tea?

WATSON: Yes, thank you. Another wedge of lemon, if you don’t mind. Now, where was I? Oh, yes. . . there were seven of us crammed into a Land Rover, on hire from a local garage.

HOLMES: And the young lady? Where was she seated?

WATSON: On my lap. Out of pure necessity, I assure you, Holmes. Otherwise she would’ve been scrunched in between myself and that damned randy Buffalo chap, you know the one – consorts with that cross-dressing cinematic captionist from East Fenwick?

HOLMES: Ah, Le Folle. . .

WATSON: The very one. Well, professional ethics dictated that I couldn’t allow poor Marsha to come into intimate contact with the most infamous muff-diver east of the Mississippi, so I insisted that she ensconce herself on the old lappers, like.

HOLMES: “Ensconce?” I say, Watters, are you implying that….

WATSON: Allow me to say merely that it was not necessary for us to share a seat belt, if you catch my lunch box.

HOLMES: Smashing bird, you say?

WATSON: Of the first water, Holmes. Tantalizing, to say the least. Of course everything was strictly on the up and up.

HOLMES: (dryly) Yes, I have no doubt. Pray, continue.

WATSON: Well, then, as we came over a small rise in the ice-covered highway, we saw the sprawling mall laid out before us, an ostentatious monument to vanity and avarice, and at the entrance to this modern day bazaar, there was a towering marquee, upon which, in bright red block letters three feet high, was spelled out the cryptic message “KIDS! TODAY AT 10 AM – SEE FUBAR THE ROBOT!”

HOLMES: Fubar?

WATSON: Precisely. Fubar.

HOLMES: An odd name, even for a robot. What is the language of origin, do you know?

WATSON: English, Holmes.

HOLMES: I think not, Watson. Let me consult the works of Dr. Johnson…

WATSON: No need, Holmes. All will be explained momentarily.

HOLMES: Very well. What happened next?

WATSON: My travelling companions, without exception, broke into riotous laughter, and our driver, who was drinking Bloody Maries from a thermos, drove our vehicle into a rather precipitous ditch, rolling the Rover in the process. Had we not all been securely fastened in place, I would most likely not be here telling the tale.

HOLMES: Thank heavens. Now, Watson, enlighten me about the aforementioned laughter.

WATSON: The local constabulary arrived on the scene minutes later, accompanied by the Fire department and the paramedics. We were expertly extracted from the flaming wreckage in the nick of time. Marsha and I were separated with the “jaws of life”. I was then obliged to fashion a makeshift splint from the whalebone stays of Marsha’s exquisite corset, alas, only recently purchased from Victoria’s Secret. Damned shame, that. . . but I digress. We were covered with blankets and given mugs of steaming black coffee, and when the writers stopped chuckling long enough to be somewhat coherent, they explained the cause of their un-premeditated mirth.

HOLMES: Confound it, Watson. Get to the punch-line, man!

WATSON: Patience, Holmes. . . more tea, please. Turns out that “Fubar” is an acronym – one, I might add, that is hardly suitable for children. Putting it euphemistically, it stands for “F**ked Up Beyond All Recognition.”

HOLMES: Good Lord! And were you able to see Fubar in person?

WATSON: Indeed, we were, Holmes. . . but I’m much too famished to go into THAT at the moment.

HOLMES: Savoy Grill? My treat?

WATSON: Capital, Holmes!

HOLMES: Harrisburg, I believe you said. I say, Mrs. Hudson, would you fetch our rubbers?

MRS. HUDSON: I’ll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head, Mr. Holmes!

WATSON: Crumpet at eleven, Hudders.

MRS HUDSON: Dr Watson, please. You'll wake the dead.

HOLMES: Curious species, these Yanks. Got an acronym for everything. Well, see if you can fathom this one, Uncle Sam. TFBTEBSNTV. OK?

Wednesday, February 21, 2007


BIRD: Dude, Frank Lee, you look like a total fookwit with a tea cosy on.
BUFFALO: Dude, it's warm, OK. I call it the Britney Hat.
BIRD: Dude, if Britney sees you like this...
BUFFALO: Britney, Paris, Helen, Jenny, Betty, Daisy, Carmen fecking Miranda. It don't make no difference. As Joyce once said, "His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead."
BIRD: Wot the fook's THAT supposed to mean?
BUFFALO: The drugs don't work.
BUFFALO: I used to imagine that I would be more happy at this stage of my life, living in the bosom of my family and all, growing old gracefully with a woman who loved and understood me...
BIRD: And?
BUFFALO: That I'd be more relaxed and mellow, and a bit wiser and more philosophical about life and so on.
BIRD: What's brought all this on?
BUFFALO: The hat. The "I Am A Fookwit Ha Ha Ha I Shall Now Go And Blow My Brains Out When The Laughter Subsides Big Girl's Blouse" woolly hat!
BIRD: Hey, it don't look so bad.
BUFFALO: Then why are you soiling yerself, dude. Why is EVERYONE I know laffing their buttholes off?
BIRD: Hey, get over it, dude. They're not laffing at you, they're laughing WITH you.
BUFFALO: But I'm not laffing.
BIRD: Light a candle for peace or some Finn. Always works for me.
BUFFALO: Birdy, I have a jar of nitrous oxide in my pocket and I'm gonna use it.
BIRD: Haven't we been here before?
BUFFALO: Yeah, every fooking Friday nite, only this is different, this time I mean it.
BIRD: The final frontier?
BUFFALO: That's right.
BIRD: No more Mr Bare Yer Fooking Soul To The World then?
BUFFALO: No. The lunatic is really me, holding myself hostage. It's time to release the hostage.
BIRD: Dude, it's time you got laid.
BIRD: Wot's Clare doin' tonite?
BUFFALO: Clare? Jeez, I forgot to call her. Wot day is it? She's got meditation at three, dream interpretation at four, scriptwriting at five, manicure at six... and Buffo at seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven and twelve!
BIRD: Dat's my boy! And remember, however bad it gets, as Einstein says "Only a life lived for others is a life worthwhile."
BUFFALO: Tanks, Birdy! I'll tell her that. Laters.
BIRD: Film at eleven.
BUFFALO: Arf, arf!

Tuesday, February 20, 2007


BIRD: Guess if you can't beat 'em...

BUFFALO: Dude, now you're just being silly. You've lost yer color.

BIRD: Desperate measures. Like you said.

BUFFALO: But but but but but...

BIRD: I've even shaved off me pubes, like.


BIRD: In solidarity. Saw Britney last nite on Fookwits Global TV. Felt VERY sorry for her.

BUFFALO: Yer all heart, dude. And just as I woz beginning to feel like a tit for doing something VERY dumb.

BIRD: Some geezer at Fox wanted to interview me. About the pubes, like.

BUFFALO: And yer Freddy?

BIRD: Still in full working order as far as I can tell.

BUFFALO: No complaints from da missus then?

BIRD: Nope. She likes it smooth.

BUFFALO: Maybe I should...

BIRD: Maybe you should.

BUFFALO: But if I did, I'd feel TOTALLY nekkid.

BIRD: Wear it loud and proud, Buffo.

BUFFALO: OK, I will. Just one thing.

BIRD: Wassat?

BUFFALO: Gotta fess up. It's so fookin' cold without da kopf that I've got to wear a woolly hat, like.

BIRD: Wot? You in a woolly hat? Gotta be seen to be relieved.

BUFFALO: Don't even like her frickin' music, dude.

BIRD: Hey, neither do I.

BUFFALO: Me head doc said it's got nuffink to do with Britney. Apparent Lee, I've got identity issues.

BIRD: Then wot have I got?

BUFFALO: A herd mentality.

BIRD: Wassat?

BUFFALO: In one ear, out da udder.

BIRD: Rimshot! Film at eleven?

BUFFALO: Arf, arf! Sparky! Seen my woolly hat anywhere?

Monday, February 19, 2007


BIRD: Wot the Freddy, dude? Wot ya done?!
BUFFALO: Nuffink much. Just shaved me gulliver, like.
BIRD: Yeah, but why?
BUFFALO: Solidarity with Britney, like.
BUFFALO: She's going through a tough time. She needs to know that I'm there for her.
BIRD: Dude, you look like a victim of a failed lobotomy.
BUFFALO: Dude, it's not how I feel, it's how Britney feels, and I know that my action has made her feel oh SO much better.
BIRD: And if she shaved her nipples off?
BUFFALO: Well, then I'd...
BIRD: And her Shepherd's Bush?
BUFFALO: Well, I'd... I'll do whatever it takes to heal that sweet misunderstood angel. The world's a wikkid place, dude. Britney's a little ray of sunshine glimmering in the fires of Hades.
BIRD: She's a big slapper with the intellectual capacity and sensibilities of a frozen pea.
BUFFALO: If this is a Britney versus Paris thang, don't go there, dude. The wound's still a-hurtin', if ya get m'drift.
BIRD: Dude, I thought you had the hots for Helen Mirren! Not some juvenile mutant on the road to McDummyanddummerville.
BUFFALO: (strokes photo) It's OK, Britters, he don't mean nothing by it. He's jealous. That's all. Note that I ain't demanding an apology from ya for those most hurtful of remarks of yours.
BIRD: Buffters, I'm outta here. Just one thing. If you decide to shave your Freddy, don't post a photo here, OK?
BUFFALO: As if! Don't worry, Britters, all this is temporary. When they realise the error of their ways, they'll BEG for your forgiveness and then you'll be right back at the top where you belong. So there, Birdman. Oo er, I suddenly feel kinda whoopy-loopy. Now where's my trank?

Sunday, February 18, 2007


WATSON: Holmes?

HOLMES: Watson?

WATSON: Holmes?

HOLMES: Watson?


It is the 20th of February. Holmes is in a sulk because I beat him, nay thrashed him at dominoes. And he is envious, methinks, of my brand-new slippers. The slippers are blue with a dash of white down the sides. They are profoundly comfortable and warm and have aided considerably the aching corn on my big toe on my left foot. We have sat here, exchanging glances, for the best part of the morning. Confound it all, one could drown in such a silence. No doctor hath greater patience than Dr Watson. It may take an hour, a day, a week even, but Holmes WILL apologise for his unbecoming behaviour and WILL forgive me and Mrs Hudson for smashing his beloved Ming vase whilst we enjoyed some hot crumpet by the fire late last night. He needs to get out more. Everybody says so. Holmes, you infuriatingly superannuated anorak, GET A LIFE!

Wednesday, February 14, 2007


WATSON: Dash it, Holmes. Snap out of it what what what.

HOLMES: Every year, it's the same, Watson. February 14th comes and goes without so much as a flutter of the letter box.

WATSON: Oh, come now, old boy, it is but a bit of harmless piffle. You and I know it doesn't mean a thing.

HOLMES: That's easy for you to say. You got a card.

WATSON: Yes. So I did.

HOLMES: You'd better read it out. Maybe it will alleviate my descending gloom.

WATSON: Oh, righty-ho. Let me see. "Dear Hotty Watty! I have been besotted by you for decades now. Will this be the year you and I finally form an honest union before the Good Lord? Just thinking about your stethoscope on my soft, yielding flesh gives me goose bumps all over. My bosom yearns for your full examination. I would dearly love to have your babies. So whaddya say?"

HOLMES: (chuckles) Oh, dear, Watson. Perhaps it is better not to receive these abominable things after all.

WATSON: But what can it mean, Holmes? And who could possibly have sent such a thing?

HOLMES: The meaning is self-elementary, my dear Watson. As to the sender's identity, one can but speculate that it is either a patient or someone who knows you very well.

WATSON: But but but... Holmes...

HOLMES: Yes, Hotty Watty?

WATSON: Now stop that. I'm flustered enough as it is. Be serious for a moment, will you?

HOLMES: But of course. What did you want to ask me?

WATSON: The sender of this lewd love letter... it wasn't, by any chance,... you, was it?

HOLMES: (guffaws sharply, catches pipe before it burns a hole in trousers) My dear quack, I can assure you that the great Sherlock Holmes does not indulge in such frivolous activities, but you may be getting warmer in your search for the culprit.

WATSON: Eh? What's that?

MRS HUDSON: Will that be all, Mr Sherlock?

HOLMES: Yes, thank you, Hudders.

MRS HUDSON: Then I shall retire to continue my duties.


WATSON: What... you don't think...

HOLMES: Indeed I do, old chum.

WATSON: But that's preposterous! Mrs Hudson? Wanting my babies? Wanting a full examination? Why, she must have taken leave of her senses.

HOLMES: Not really, Watson. I have observed the way she becomes extremely coy in your presence.

WATSON: Crikey! You mean it's not a prank?

HOLMES: Far from it, Watson. The poor deluded maid is totally bewitched by your being.

WATSON: But Holmes, I mean... surely... indefatigably... well, obviously... I say, you know I think I may have to um... ask Mrs Hudson a few things about provisions for next week what what what.

HOLMES: Good for you, Watson. Time waits for no man. Indeed such an occasion merely proves to rub that fact in. You know, I have this mental image of a dog chasing its own tail, happy as a lark, until he gets lucky and bites himself and then runs off howling in agony, and the next day he's chasing his tail again. So maybe ignorance truly is bliss.

WATSON: What's that, Holmes?

HOLMES: Nothing. Now run along and make hay while the sun shines for it is my destiny, today at least, to ponder the emptiness of our existence.

WATSON: Ah, yes. Good. Spiffing. Um... well, see you later, then.

HOLMES: Of that you can be sure, Watson. Fare ye well in the path of Cupid's arrow and may it land in its intended place. Happy Valentine's Day, everyone!

Tuesday, February 13, 2007


MRS HUDSON: Oh, Mr Sherlock, I had no idea.

HOLMES: It's all right, Hudders, you weren't to know.

MRS HUDSON: And this baby of yours...

HOLMES: My son.

MRS HUDSON: You've really no idea where he is now?

HOLMES: Unfortunately, not. The mother gave strict instructions that I was to be kept in the dark about his whereabouts.

MRS HUDSON: But surely with all your powers of detection, you could find him, Mr Sherlock.

HOLMES: Alas, there are some puzzles even the great Sherlock Holmes cannot solve.

MRS HUDSON: But have you tried to find him?

HOLMES: Oh, dear Hudders, it is not so simple. The boy, no doubt, has changed name and identity a hundred times since he was brought into this ugly world of ours.

MRS HUDSON: Oh, Mr Sherlock, is that a tear I see in your eye?

HOLMES: I fear it is, Hudders.

MRS HUDSON: Oh, come here, you silly old fruit.


MRS HUDSON: Is that better, Mr Sherlock?

HOLMES: (sighs) Much better, sweet udders. I mean Hudders.

MRS HUDSON: There, now you rest your weary weepers awhile until that daft old quack Watson gets back from the vet with that filthy mutt.

HOLMES: Mmm. One could quite easily... fall asleep... in such a soft... cradle... zzzzzzzzzzzzzz...


WATSON: I say, Holmes! We're back! Toby's had his manhood seen to. Ah-hmm. Perhaps he'll stop trying to compromise all those cute little poodles now. Holmes?!

MRS HUDSON: Hush, will you! Mr Sherlock is enjoying forty winks.

WATSON: Crikey. I say! Isn't he, just! As snug as a bug in an Axminster. Come on, Toby! Let's leave the master to um... enjoy Mrs Hudders'... thoughtful accommodation.


WATSON: Here, boy! There's nothing of interest to you there now, Toby pooster. Choccie biccie?


WATSON: Good boy! Let's go and see what we can find in the pantry what what what.


Monday, February 12, 2007


WATSON: I say, Holmes.

HOLMES: Yes, Watson?

WATSON: It says here in the Times that that harlot Anna Nicole Smith has passed away.

HOLMES: Language, old chap, please.

WATSON: Sorry, Holmes. It's just it made my blood boil the way she married that silly old fogie and diddled him out of his money.

HOLMES: Don't believe everything you read, old chum. I have it on good authority that he died happily and peacefully with a long, stiff protrusion to boot.

WATSON: Holmes! I'm shocked.

HOLMES: Oh, come now, Watty Botty, we're both men of the world here. You didn't think that your intrepid crime cracker was blissfully unaware of the mores of his underlings, did you?

WATSON: No, of course, not, it's just...

HOLMES: You're not used to me referring to the male member.

WATSON: Quite.

HOLMES: I hardly think protrusion qualifies as talking smutty, do you?

WATSON: Well, no, but but but...

HOLMES: Watson, old bean, I have known pleasures other than nabbing the latest murderer to cause mayhem in Berkeley Square, you know.

WATSON: Oh, dear. Listen to us. Talking tittle tattle like a pair of demented bell ringers.

HOLMES: Or should that be ball ringers?

WATSON: Oh, my Godddddd!

HOLMES: Oh, spare me the feigned outrage, Watson. I saw you chuckle.

WATSON: I chortled against my better judgement, Holmes.

HOLMES: It reminds me of the notorious case of Molly Bloomerless and her insatiable appetite for aristocratic patronage, if you recall.

WATSON: Oh, really, Holmes! Must we remember that awful lady of the night?

HOLMES: It has some bearing on the present taste of elderly gents for pretty young things today, does it not?

WATSON: Well...

HOLMES: And Molly would have got clean away with the loot had it not been for the deflating boobsters, remember?

WATSON: An ingenious plan, to fill her ample bosom with thousands of pounds of hard-earnt aristocratic lucre. Only you could have deduced where she'd hidden it.

HOLMES: Indeed. And it was I who recovered the notes from that veritable pouch too.

WATSON: Masterfully done too.

HOLMES: But I shan't deny, my dear quack, that I was stirred by that waif's acquired assets.

WATSON: Naturally.

HOLMES: Which only proves one thing.

WATSON: Which is?

HOLMES: That we are all vulnerable to the attentions of a voracious femme. So we must be on our guard and not think too unkindly or smirk too loudly at the misfortunes that befall silly old duffers who should know better. 'Twas always thus and 'twill always be.

WATSON: Dash it, Holmes, if I'm not more confused than ever. Next you'll be telling me you find that damnable floozie Paris Hilton rather fanciful.

HOLMES: She is not without her merits, Watson, but can't sing for a toffee and has all the grace of a rat on arsenic.

WATSON: I'll take that as a no then.

HOLMES: I think you shall. No, Watson, when it comes to the fairer sex, I can see no more wonderful creature than Helen Mirren. Alas, far too glamorous to bother herself with little old me.

WATSON: 'Fraid so, Holmes. But one can harbour one's dreams what what what.

HOLMES: In fact, there are those who claim I turned to crime solving because of my disastrous forays into romance. Well, perhaps they're right. Perhaps my love for Aggie was doomed from the off.

WATSON: Aggie?

HOLMES: Not now, Watson. The demons are upon me.

WATSON: Oh, right. Well, I er... I'll just go and give Toby a trot round the block.

HOLMES: If you wouldn't mind.

WATSON: Yes. Um... see you later then.

HOLMES: If only I hadn't been so eager to get to second base...


Wednesday, February 07, 2007


BIRD: Hello?

KINNEY DALLIS: Hi there! My name Kinney Dallis!

BIRD: But I don't know any Kinneys.

KINNEY DALLIS: Thank you for your loan request, which we recieved yesterday, your refinance application has been accepted Good Credit or Not,


KINNEY DALLIS: We are ready to give you a $390,000 loan, after further review, our lenders have established the lowest monthly payments. Approval process will take only 1 minute.
Please visit the confirmation link below and fill-out our short 30 second Secure Web-Form.

BIRD: Er, thanks, but no, thanks.

KINNEY DALLIS: You're welcome.

BIRD: Don't ya just love spam? Now lemme just click on this baby here... Urgh yahhhhk! More rabbit porn. I tell ya, dude. Pubistan must be stopped.

BUFFALO: Yeah. It's giving good honest clean darty porn a bad name.

BIRD: Exactly.

BUFFALO: Wait, dude. Kinney Dallis is a goddamn rabbit?

BIRD: Hey, sorry, dude. I clicked on the wrong link. I went to

BUFFALO: You too, huh? Must stop doing that.

BIRD: A cautionary tale for all our fans, if ever there was one.

BUFFALO: Yer right there, my avian chum.

BIRD: O shite on a tricycle! Now I can't close the window down.

BUFFALO: Reboot.

BIRD: Bollax on a sandwich. Rebooting now. What the...

BUFFALO: What's that, dude?

BIRD: Pop ups. Nothing but pop ups with dollar signs and boobs and rabbits' bits and... Oh, I don't believe it!

BUFFALO: Dude, you're scaring me! Are you OK?

BIRD: A new e-mail has flashed up. Listen to this:

UK.22 Garden Close,
PE9 2YP, London

REF Nº:UKNL-L/200-26937BATCH Nº:14/0017/1PD

Dear Winner!

This is to inform you that you have been selected for a cash prize of £1,000,000.00 (British Pounds) held on the 1St of February 2007 inLondon Uk. The selection process was carried out through randomselection in our computerized email selection system(ess) from adatabase of over 250,000 email addresses drawn from which you were selected. The BRITISH UK. Lottery is approved by the British Gaming Board. To begin the processing of your prize you are to contact our fiduaciary claims department for more infomation as regards procedures to claimyour prize. Contact your fiduciary agent below for claims process. Name: Mr Shedrack Harrison .Phone # : +44-702-405-4092

Is nowhere safe?

BUFFALO: Dunno, dude. Sounds kinda plausible. Maybe you should phone.

BIRD: Are you serious?

BUFFALO: Could've won a lorra money.

BIRD: No way, dude. No. No. No.





BUFFALO: I knew a Shedrack once. Nice kid. Skinny. Pointy ears. Bit of a lisp. Ring him.

BIRD: Oh, OK, then. Film at eleven.

BUFFALO: Arf, arf! Omigod! Wot have I done. I woz only havin' a laff. Like.

Tuesday, February 06, 2007


BIRD: You OK, dude?

BUFFALO: You seen "Ground Hog Day", Birdy?

BIRD: Nope.

BUFFALO: Dude, get it. It's seminal.

BIRD: Okey-dokes.

BUFFALO: Woke up this morning with that "Ground Hog Day" feeling.

BIRD: Xplain, pliz, Lucy.

BUFFALO: The lesson of "Ground Hog Day" is that every day presents a unique opportunity to turn your life around and make something of yourself. . . But come to think of it, the whole idea of one "making something" of oneself is totally absurd, for we are already something, even if that something is no more clearly articulated than the incoherent ramblings of a semi-literate world leader. Ground Hog Day is an opportunity for all of us to get in touch with the Cosmos, to look inwardly and find the spark of divinity that lives within us, hiding like a. . . well, like a groundhog. . . just waiting for its cue to slither out of its hole like a disenchanted trouser snake, hell-bent on catching a glimpse of its own wee shadow. . . a shadow that indicates the presence of the Sun. It's never been clear to me why the groundhog's shadow is not regarded as an harbinger of Spring instead of an ill omen dictating that we must endure another six weeks of winter. Baffling. Still there, Birdman?

BIRD: Riveted to me seat. Opening up the popcorn... now!

BUFFALO: There is it, a half-witted tradition that goes on and on and on, like "Ground Hog Day" itself, operating on sheer inertia. And yet, as crazy and tedious as it might seem, there is a kind of wisdom in it. Bill Murray's caught in a time warp of his own making. His incredible arrogance, vanity, and insensitivity have twisted the space around him so severely that it results in a distortion of the Time-Space Continuum itself. By his own unwitting design, Phil Connors, a.k.a. Punxsutawney Phil, creates a time loop from which he cannot escape – or so he believes. At first Phil is as stunned as a fish that has encountered an M-80 tossed into its pond by a sadistic angler that is eight sheets to the wind, tanked out on Bud Lite and Jack Daniels. He seeks psychiatric help. A clueless therapist asks him to come back "tomorrow". He buries his throbbing head in a pillow and slam dunks it with his fist, over and over again, much like Ground Hog Day itself. Ah, but then Phil sees the light. . . well, more like a night-light. . . he uses the time loop to seduce various local ladies of easy virtue, until he tires of this pajama game, for it is Andie who’s captured his crooked heart. But when he tries to seduce her, he has no more success than Richard Benjamin in “Portnoy’s Complaint” when John Carradine (as God) looks down upon him from a lofty podium and bellows, “Don’t try to bullshit ME, Portnoy!” But, I disinvest. Still there?

BIRD: Yep. Could you speak a wincy bincy quincy bit louder, for posterity, like?

BUFFALO: Sure. Well, when Phil finally convinces Andie that he’s trapped in a chronological Moebius strip, her take is “Gee, Phil, I don’t know. . . maybe it’s not a curse, maybe it’s a blessing.” And of course, it is. A chance to relive one day over and over again until you perfect it, and yourself as well. I have donated my alarm clock to the Department of Homeland Insecurity and in its stead I’ve placed my portable DVD player, in which I’ve inserted a copy of “Ground Hog Day” – cued up to the scene where Phil’s clock radio flips to 6:00 AM for the first time and he is awakened by Sonny and Cher singing “I’ve Got You, Babe.” From this day forward, I shall make every day Ground Hog Day, and I suggest that we all do the same. So, when I found Sparky in the shower this morning...

BIRD: Sparky?

BUFFALO: Yeah, Sparky. When I found him in the shower practising moves a contortionist would baulk at, I came straight out and told him:
"For the love of God, man, extract your cranial appendage from your rectal orifice, unhand that defenseless rodent, flush those useless meds down the toilet and go out and find yourself a new girlfriend before you go blind or have to start shaving your palms. Self-abuse is not only useless, amigo, but unnecessary. You can get all the abuse you want, with little effort on your part." Here endeth the sermon.

BIRD: Amen.

WATSON: I say, Holmes.

HOLMES: Yes, Watson?

WATSON: What on earth are those two good for nothings going on about now?

HOLMES: Haven't the foggiest... yet! But it's all going down in my little blue book. Now get down to Blockbusters and rent out that confounded film, will you, old chap? I believe it holds the key to the auld Buffalo's salivation. Chop, chop. We haven't got all day.

MRS HUDSON: A Mr Sparky to see you, Mr Sherlock.

HOLMES: Oh, goody Woody. Send him in.

Monday, February 05, 2007


MRS HUDSON: It's a letter... for you, Mr Sherlock.

HOLMES: Thank you, Hudders. That will be all. Watson?

WATSON: Oh, yes, quite. It's a poem, Holmes. I think.

HOLMES: Well, read it, then, man.

WATSON: Right you are, mon Liege.

An idiot who lived in a hovel
Just published a best-selling novel.
Though his vomitous drivel
Would make your head swivel
He fancies himself Vaclav Havel.

HOLMES: Is that it?

WATSON: 'Fraid so, Holmes. What do you suppose it means?

HOLMES: Let me see. I fear, and I hope I'm mistaken here, Watty, old boy, but I fear that it means that Dan Brown has published a sequel to the Da Vinci Code.

WATSON: Surely not, Holmes. Not after the film flopped so atrociously.

HOLMES: Listen carefully, Watson, because I shall only say this the once. Those who can, can. Those who can't, write best-selling novels.

WATSON: Oh, good Lord, you've got me there, old bean. My dendrites are in a veritable twist, what what what. I don't suppose you'd care to elucidate?

HOLMES: Persist. Conquer.

WATSON: Sorry, Holmes. You've lost me.

HOLMES: Or as Flaubert put it: "Nothing is more humiliating than to see idiots succeed in enterprises we have failed in."

WATSON: Ah, yes, indeed. But what is literature, anyway, hmm, but the pursuit of inner happiness by other means?

HOLMES: (drops pipe in lap) What did you say?

WATSON: Don't you agree?

HOLMES: Quite incredible. You know, Watson, I've given this some thought and I think that now may well be the time...

WATSON: To write all our adventures down so that we may inspire future generations of readers and writers and super sleuths?

HOLMES: Just so, Twotty Watty. But where to begin?

WATSON: Oh, I don't know, what about the Blood Hound Of The Biscuit Thrills? Remember, we never did find the tin.

HOLMES: Indeed. A splendid idea, my good man. Hand me that, pen, Watson. Time to show Dan Brown and his ilk what real literature is all about.

WATSON: Nobel at eleven, Holmes.

HOLMES: Booker at twelve.


HOLMES: Never mind, old chap. (writes) Mr Sherlock Holmes, who was usually quite comatose in the mornings, save upon those not infrequent occasions when he was up all night drinking the finest malt whiskey and sniffing substances from test tubes, was splayed out at the breakfast table. I stood upon the shag pile and picked up the biscuit tin which Mr Borat had left the night before. It was a fine, thick piece of tin, suffused with herbs and spices, with a charming illustration of Hunting and Polymer's finest choccie biscuits for dunking...

Thursday, February 01, 2007






BIRD: Hi, there!

MR LOMPO: I am Mr. moubarik lompo, Manager Audit Accounting Department Bank International Du Burkina B.I.B.

BIRD: That's nice. Mr Loco, you say? I like banks with abbreviations. Now how can I help?

MR LOMPO: I would like to know if this proposal will be worth while for your acceptance.

BIRD: I'm listening.

MR LOMPO: I have a Foreign Customer,Andreas Schranner from Germany who is an Investor, Crude Oil Merchant and Federal Government Contractor...…

BIRD: Piquing my interest here, dude.

MR LOMPO: ..that was a victim with Concord Air Line, flight AF4590 killing 113 people crashed on 25 July 2000 near Paris...…

BIRD: Sorry to hear that. Friend of yours, was he?

MR LOMPO: ..leaving a closing balance of Twelve Million Eight Hundred Thousand United States Dollars ($12.8m in one of his Private US Dollar Account...…

BIRD: That's a lorra dough.

MR LOMPO: ..that is been managed by me as the Customer's Account Officer.

BIRD: The grammar, dude, it's just not happening, but go on.

MR LOMPO: Base on my security report, these funds can be claimed without any hitches as no one is aware of the funds and its closing balance except me and the customer (Now Deceased)...…

BIRD: Er, and you're writing to us because...…

MR LOMPO: ..therefore, I can present you as the Next of Kin...…

BIRD: Ah, I think I can see what you're deriving at.

MR LOMPO: ..and we will work out the modalities for the claiming of the funds in accordance with the law.

BIRD: Well, naturally.

MR LOMPO: If you are interested, Please call me to discuss in further details and our sharing ratio will be 60% for me and 30% for you...…

BIRD: You're nothing if not a fair man, Mr Loco. And your number is?

MR LOMPO: ..while 10% wil be for the necessary expenses that might occur along the line.

BIRD: But of course. Now if you'd just tell me your number...

MR LOMPO: Thank you, Sincerely.

BIRD: No, thank YOU!

MR LOMPO: ( MR) moubarik lompo

BIRD: Oh, there's just one tincy wincy bincy quincy little nagging doubt here, Mr Lompo: Apparent Lee, Andreas Schanner was delayed that day and never actually made it onto that flight, which makes your proposal slightly dodgy, to say the least. However, providing you've got access to his stash of cash, I think we can overlook that minor discrepancy, on the strict understanding, of course, that if you are caught with your Freddy in the till, so to speak, that you and I have never met and that you have no idea who I am or what happened to the 30% once it's mysteriously removed from a certain Mr Sparky's Swiss bank account within minutes of you transferring the money into it. Oh, and one last thing, just to ensure that you don't have second thoughts about doing business with the delectavious Tails From The Bird & Buffalo franchise, I have concealed in several e-mail in-boxes of some highly trusted pals copies of your e-mail, which if revealed to Interpol would lead to you spending a VERY long time in prison, or perhaps enduring an even worse fate. Now does that sound reasonable to you? Cyber shake on it? Mr Loco? Are you there?